"Gods!" Duran shut the door, and stood leaning his forehead on it. No wonder Brovor had all but recognized him. Though it had been years since he had been at court, and the light in his shop had not been the best—Brovor had seen him many times as a child . . . a square-faced, obstinate boy, a bad temper—
A grown man with a dynastic marriage to make, a secret to protect . . .
Hladyr protect! What did he do now? The two men had taken great pains to hide their identities; but the companion had let slip one clue by mentioning the Khaldori family, a second by reference to Saladar . . . and Brovor was no fooclass="underline" some small, nagging sense of recognition might set him to asking discreet questions, closer questions that might turn up a name—an association—that might make him believe his secret in danger—
Himself vulnerable to blackmail . . .
O gods! Why did I answer my door? They could have found other doctors to treat the pox, other physicians who would keep secrets. Why me?
They had paid in gold. For the silence as well as treatment. An ordinary apothecary would be overawed, have no notion what the scandal was worth, politically—but a disenfranchised nobleman, an alchemist with guild connections, a son of a disgraced father—with possible motives for political revenge, or alliance . . .
Not mentioning the chance of the heir dying if he miscalculated in his dosage—forget all hope of claiming it was the disease . . .
He would have to be careful, very careful, both in his treatment and in keeping his identity secret—and the chances of doing that seemed frighteningly slim. . . .
The one who discovered the cure, the companion had said.
Gods, hope the companion never mentioned names, hope the companion never understood his previous court connections, never connected Duran the Apothecary with Duran the Alchemist, Duran vro Ancahar . . .
Nothing to be done. Absolutely nothing to be done. One walked a narrow line and hoped—and did not look for much sleep this night.
A day of better trade, a quiet day, thank the gods. But it drizzled. There was a brisk trade in febrifuges, in willow tea. One could forget about ducal heirs, keep one's eyes on Old Town, put palaces and princes put of one's mind and worry about the Wirrin baby, who took colic; and Eemi, from harborside, with a knife-cut from one of her customers: Eemi feared scarring . . . Duran wanted a test for the herbs and lard. . . .
It seemed dishonest to charge, the girl being out of work and all. . . .
Dog barked downstairs, and barked again. Duran sat bolt upright in his chair where he had all but fallen asleep, his notes on his lap, another experiment bubbling away in its pot. This was Dog's most unfriendly bark, a bark more vicious than that reserved for mere visitors.
Another chorus of barks.
Duran walked across the room to a side window. The clouds had fled and a full moon rode above Targheiden now, and by its light Duran could see movement in the alleyway below. He stared through the darkness, trying to make out what was going on.
And then he saw and stepped back from the window. Someone was being beaten in the alley. Though he had heard no cries for help, the scuffling, the heavy breathing, and the muffled sounds of blows were easy enough to hear in the intervals of Dog's barking.
"Damn!"
Without thinking, Duran grabbed for his lamp and took to the stairs at a run, down the steps, across his shop as he fumbled for his keys. He snatched up his heavy walking stick, the only weapon the law allowed commoners. Hefting the staff in one hand, he unlocked the door and jerked it open wide as Dog joined him, his back bristled, a low growl rumbling up from his chest as he loped out into a street deserted at this late hour, light from the "Cat's" torches shining on damp cobblestones. Duran followed Dog, staff in hand, around the corner of his house and into the blind alleyway.
The combination of moonlight and distant torchlight showed him who his opponents were: mere boys, three of them, probably no more than fourteen years old—and running up behind the young toughs, he was upon them before they heard him coming. He lashed out with his staff—once, twice—hitting two of the boys, then jabbing up at the stomach of the third.
"Damn you!" He spun around to take a blow on his staff from the first tough he had hit and to deliver the butt-end to an unguarded kneecap. "Don't like the odds now, do you?"
One of the boys sprinted off into the darkness: Duran heard a snarl and a yelp of pain—Dog had entered the fight, one remaining thug attempting to tear from Dog's hold, the other, lamed, sidling around Duran, his back to the wall of the building on the opposite side of the alley.
"Hey, Grandpa!" the other taunted, and Duran saw the dim glint of light on metal in that hand. "See if you can get this!"
The young tough stabbed out with his knife, but Duran had expected the move and, jumping back, brought the end of his staff around in a blow that sent his opponent staggering back against the wall. A second swipe of the staff knocked the boy's knife from his hand—at which, with Dog chasing after the second thug, the boy Duran faced spun and lurched off into the dark, decidedly the worse for wear.
Panting, Duran leaned on his long staff, his ears ringing. Damn. He had not lost his touch.
Dog gave up the chase and trotted tamely back. Quiet descended on the block. Somewhere shutters banged close again—none in this lane but his own, that cast a wan light to reflect on the walls. The victim of the toughs' attack sat leaning up against the wall of Duran's house, arms wrapped around his chest.
"Boy?" Duran said, walking closer. No response. "Are you all right?"
The boy looked up, nodded briefly, once.
Sabirn, the hair, the features were distinctive even in the dim light. A Sabirn out walking this district. That explained the attack.
"Can you stand?" Duran asked. The boy nodded, gathered his feet, and made an attempt. After a brief moment, he subsided. "Here." Duran held out a hand, grasped the youth under one arm, and helped him to his feet. "Got you pretty bad, didn't they?"
The Sabirn youth nodded again and stood swaying on his feet. Dog had come back from investigating the battle-site, and snuffled at the boy's shoes.
Duran looked across at the "Cat," at the end of the alleyway, but the tavern lay silent: many of its customers had gone home by now, and the travelers who were staying the night would have likely gone to bed: too late to rouse Tutadar, no sign of Old Man, who might be of some use.
"Lean on me," Duran said, taking some of the boy's weight on his left side. He took the lad toward the street, toward his front door—gods, he had left it open. But Dog trotted ahead and stood waiting on the doorstep, tail slowly wagging back and forth, evidence of property unmolested.
The Sabirn boy balked at the threshold, wobbled. Duran insisted, Duran helped the youth across the doorstep, Dog complicating matters by trying to enter the shop at the same time.
"Go on, Dog. Good boy. Lie down now." Duran nodded, let the boy lean against the counter, picked up his lamp. "Then let's take it slow." He reached out to put the other arm around the boy: the youth flinched. "Easy. Mehciya."
The boy looked at him, set-jawed, scared-looking in the lamplight.
"That's the limit of my Sabir. But I'm a friend. Try to help me if you can."
Slowly, taking as much of the boy's weight as he would give, Duran walked him to the rear of the shop. The steps leading upstairs were steep and narrow; he took them one at a time, pausing now and again to let the youth gather strength for the next. Finally, Duran gained the second story, and led the boy into his room, to his bed.